


is your life just one more lie

by fillertexted



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Mental Health Issues, Nonbinary Character, Other, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 01:31:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9944384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fillertexted/pseuds/fillertexted
Summary: It wasn't truly a problem until he's sitting on the floor of a sticky bar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know my dudes!! i dont know

It hadn’t started out as something to be concerned about, really. All he was doing was bending under the wills of his friends to _let loose for once, Enj, it’s the weekend!_ Or _that’s all you’re having?_ Or _here, dude, put some hair on your chest_ ; all unwelcome, seemingly innately understood sentiments between all his friends. So he eventually strayed from just a half bottle of cheap beer or a glass of diluted wine, and chanced taking sips of anything his friends had. Things he at the time had no name for, just a taste and reminder to _never drink_ that _again, Jesus._ It was harmless, just him branching out, experiencing life beyond classes and planning.

His friends are more than ecstatic that the straight-edge Enjolras is finally letting _go_ for once and just having fun. They have Snapchat stories fun of him making drunken political speeches, and drunken poetic speeches. They have drunk texts from him about how much he loves them all, except most are spelt ‘o livee tuo sooop mych’ followed by crying face emojis and hearts, but the point still stands. The most memorable of all is a shaky and blurred low-light video of Enjolras and Grantaire huddled in a corner, faces close together, in their own little world. Courfeyrac made sure all the Amis were given a copy.

So sure, maybe _someone_ should’ve been more concerned when Enjolras went from never stepping foot in a bar, to one a month, to once a week, to twice a week, to every day. It’s an implausibly fast progression, but Enjolras is an implausibly passionate person about everything, so he supposes it fits. If he is to go down, He’s going to do it loudly and passionately. So, he keeps up the drinking, eventually strays from beers and wines to things like rum and whiskey and vodka. He orders everything on the menu, from ‘girly’ drinks to anything straight. He learns that he prefers a burn over a sickly sweet sugar coating.

In all honestly, Enjolras doesn’t even think about it when he pours two shots of whiskey into his coffee. It’s not the most delicious combination, but it makes his hands shake less, and the strange yearning quiet down. He wonders if he should be concerned about that, but he’s halfway through his first cup of coffee and shrugs off the fact that he puts two more shots into the next cup.

It occurs to him that maybe something is wrong when he starts getting easily distracted when planning meetings. He tends to plan the next one right after the last one, so he has immediate access to his friends, and so he has a soothing kind of background noise. Normally, it’s just noisy enough for him to be able to focus well, but tonight it seems like his focus is latching onto every thread-less whisper, making him strain to pick out the conversation as his eyes try fruitlessly to reread what he had been writing. After five minutes of trying to follow both a rowdy story and next weeks’ timetable, he gives up and shoves his papers aside. He goes over to the bar, and is greeted with raucous cheering.

Perhaps he should look into the reason why he’s suddenly loosing so much of his memory. Simple things, like if he ate that day or where he put his keys are the most common, but it’s been turning into not remembering dates for important meet ups, tests, and Amis meetings. He cannot remember what he did at all yesterday. He’s on his hands and knees looking for his keys (again) under his couch because he’s desperate, honestly, when his hand brushes against a piece of paper. When he drags it out, it turns out to be an old poster of Grantaire’s that advertised their last protest. It had been months ago. He sets it down with shaky hands on the coffee table, next to his keys.

Enjolras used to plan protests every two weeks.

He begins to become a little concerned for himself when he finds himself taking a backseat to his meetings, handing them off to Combeferre after five, ten minutes of speaking. From there, he settles down at one of the front tables with whatever drink he’s obsessed with that week and sorts through the printed sources brought the meeting. This week, it’s file after file and folder after folder of some corrupt politicians’ tax returns. They’re disorderly and dubious in a way that requires better math than what Enjolras can currently provide. He sets them aside and pays more attention to Combeferre, barely noticing when his shaking hands spill some alcohol on the table. He also fails to notice his friends shooting him concerned glances.

Maybe he could’ve hid it better. More solid reasons for why he suddenly wasn’t driving anywhere, or why there was a newfound stumble in his walk, or why his words became slurred from something other than exhaustion. He could’ve hid his shaking hands better, the obvious distraction, and the anxiety when not in close proximity to something he could drink. Maybe, even, he could’ve hid his downward spiral, but he’s always been a surprisingly open person, and never really thought too hard about the damage he was doing to himself.

In hindsight, it’s obvious that it would end up here, Enjolras with flushed cheeks and a wild feel, Grantaire with a red face and even wilder one. It started as most of their arguments do; Enjolras preaching to the choir plus Grantaire, and Grantaire playing devil’s advocate.

For once, Enjolras was leading a meeting, but he held a nearly drained glass of wine in one hand as he gestured sloppily with the other, tongue tied every other word. It’s not a very impressive display, but Enjolras is beyond passionate about trans kids and resources for trans kids, so he’s up in front of his friends, leaning against a table and swaying slightly as he talks, more human than figurehead.

But Enjolras can never lead a revolution without the input of Grantaire. Grantaire, the impossible rabble-rouser and resident cynic of the group. Grantaire, who tends to spout anything and everything that can refute Enjolras’ point. Grantaire, who appears to be equally as drunk as Enjolras, which truly is a feat at this point.

Grantaire’s voice is loud, louder than Enjolras’ unchecked volume, even. “You keep preaching for resources, but _what_ resources? Library books?”

Enjolras’ head whips around to where Grantaire is sitting, knee propped against their table to keep them balancing on one chair leg. He huffs. “Yes, library books, but more staff training and awareness, not to mention more access to changing name and gender records.”

Grantaire makes an irritated sound. “Do you honestly think schools will actively try to help out trans kids beyond those liberal ones? And the name and gender records, what about the kids who aren’t out, or NB kids? They won’t have options like that. Besides, how much legal trouble would you be in if you did that?”

Enjolras stomps his foot and downs the rest of his wine, setting the glass harshly on the table in front of him. “That’s why we need more staff training! More awareness for trans kids in the first place, and, and… Stuff! More stuff to support and care for trans students.”

Grantaire just shakes their head.

Enjolras makes a whining sound. “You're trans too! Why aren’t you agreeing with me?”

And it spirals from there; Grantaire waxing a long poetic on just surface similarities don’t lead to equal opinions, which leads them into talking about how Enjolras is too optimistic, which leads back to them accusing him of generalizing all trans people and their thoughts, which spirals into some tangent Enjolras can’t hold the thread of. His head is spinning trying to keep up with something he only understands and hears every third word of.

His words really don’t make sense when he tries to argue with them, hastily cobbling together a sentence that he hopes is somewhat intelligible, but is probably half words and half slur. He loses the thread all together by the time Grantaire shifts from unsubtly insulting his beliefs to being frustrated and commenting on him.

“You're so full of shit! There you are, preaching about all the self-destructive transgender people, and look what you're doing! You're just day drinking like it’s a competition! You don’t do anything for yourself anymore, and you're a burden to your friends, and to me! Why are you even here, Enjolras?”

Enjolras swallows. Not much had made sense that night, but that was certainly loud and clear. “I’m not, I guess.” And so, he spins around ungracefully, heading towards the exit as fast as possible. Everyone seems frozen, wide eyed at the spectacle. Enjolras makes sure the bell above the door shatters the quiet he left behind.

 

 

-0-

 

 

He’s in a bar, somewhere. He isn’t quite sure where, but the bartender hasn’t cut him off yet, so he supposes he faked being sober well enough for both her and the bouncer. Considering he’s resting his head on his arms on top of the bar, he’s not too sure how well he’s doing now, but he still has a glass of something strong next to him, so it’s fine.

He feels a hand gently shaking his shoulder, and he rolls a heavy head to eye the bartender. She has an open and warm face, with eyes that dance, somehow. She is both breathtakingly beautiful and homely. She’s familiar, in a way; like he had heard a description of her from somewhere. Her face is wrinkled in worry, now, and her mouth is moving but Enjolras can’t hear what she’s saying. Everything is swirling, and he can hear her melodious voice but can’t make sense of the words, only that her face is becoming increasingly concerned. After what feels like ages, she melts away, and Enjolras studies the twinkling lights placed around the low-lit bar. They’re beautiful, amber colored and suitable for the environment. Enjolras lets his heavy eyes close.

And it feels like only a minute later when his shoulder is disturbed again, before cool hands are on his face and he’s forced up. He’s dizzy, but opens his eyes against the spinning and vaguely focuses on Grantaire’s face. Grantaire, who is apparently witnessing him being absolutely pathetic at some hole in the wall bar. Enjolras attempts to stand and get away, but he only really succeeds in slithering to the floor in a heap of drunken blond revolutionary. Under his hot hands the floor is sticky, and if he had the dexterity he’d be wiping his hands on his pants.

He thinks he hears Grantaire curse, but he knows that Grantaire drops to the floor with him, because they’re suddenly back in Enjolras’ line of sight, and they don’t really look all that happy, which is rich, coming from them. Enjolras makes sure to tell them this, loudly.

Grantaire just frowns. “What?”

Or maybe Enjolras just slurred a bunch of sounds together. Deciding that the best way to communicate is hand gestures, he points to himself before giving Grantaire the bird. Though he nods self-confidently at the end, Grantaire just seems more confused, which must be a record. Grantaire runs a hand through their hair.

“Okay, Enjolras, I’m not really sure what you're trying to say, but I'm honestly super sorry about what I said. It was uncalled for, and untrue. So. I'm sorry.”

Enjolras hums. What had Grantaire said, anyway? It seemed so unimportant, several drinks later. Enjolras attempts human speech again. “It’s fine.”

Grantaire seems to sag in relief. “Oh, I'm so glad. I wasn’t really sure you were going to accept it, I mean, why would you? I was so out of line, just fucking horrible to you.”

Enjolras shrugs, but it’s more a violent movement of his shoulders than anything. He feels like his shoulders are getting a lot of action tonight, and starts giggling in the prospect of telling them to use protection. Grantaire looks concerned again. “Enj? Are you okay?”

Enjolras shrugs again, and bursts into giggles once more. “I think so. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Grantaire frowns. “If you say so.”

Enjolras gasps suddenly, and tries to struggle upright, but only manages to hit his head on the barstool behind him. Pouting, he lays a clumsy hand on his forehead. “Ow. But R, how did you find me? I didn’t tell you I was here, did I? That doesn’t sound like me.”

Grantaire shakes their head, keeping a cautious eye on him. “No, ‘Chetta texted me. Did you not realize you're in the Corinthe?”

Now, the names ring some bells in Enjolras’ empty mind. Musichetta, the final member of the Joly and Bossuet trio. The Corinthe, the bar everyone frequents after the Musain closes for the night. Enjolras closes his eyes in embarrassment. Getting pathetically drunk in front of his friends’ new girlfriend is exactly the way any first meeting should go. In fact, he’s still sitting on the gross floor. He should probably get up.

“Okay, well, you're in the Corinthe, have been for the past twenty or so minutes, and I’ve come to get you. “

And, for some reason, Enjolras begins to cry. Giant, heaving sobs that rattle his entire frame and make Grantaire freeze in panic. He brings shaking hands up to cover his face.

“Hey! Oh, God, Enjolras, why are you crying?”

Enjolras sniffles. “I’m such a fucking mess. Just. God! I’ve dragged fucking everyone into this shit, like hey guys, watch your leader absolutely destroy himself over fucking nothing! How great! Ugh.”

Grantaire looks pained.

“And look, I'm making you uncomfortable now, just another fucking thing wrong! Why can’t I just do something right for once?”

Grantaire frantically waves their hands. “Okay, no, everything you just said there was wrong. Do not try to argue with me, Enjolras, shut your mouth.”

Grantaire grabs hold of Enjolras’ hands, and brings them to his chest. “You are the best person I know, full stop. So you’ve given yourself an addiction problem, it’s okay. We can deal with it. You don’t have to be Atlas.”

And for the first time in months, Enjolras feels something other than desperation. He’s kneeling on a dirty bar floor with his sort-of friend comforting him while he bawls his eyes out like a child, but he feels something like hope. He feels love, light, and hope.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the third time ive tried to upload this and the two other ending notes were self deprecating and i dont remember what they said
> 
> [fillertexted](http://fillertexted.tumblr.com) (writing n hamilton blog) or [derritaire](http://derritaire.tumblr.com) (les mis blog)


End file.
